He was very well pleased with himself on his way home.  He left the car at the public garage, and walked, whistling blithely, to his small bachelor apartment.  He was a self-indulgent man, and his rooms were comfortable to the point of luxury.  In the sitting room was a desk, as clean and orderly as Doyle’s was untidy.  Having put on his dressing gown he went to it, and with a sheet of paper before him sat for some time thinking.

He found his work irksome at times.  True, it had its interest.  He was the liaison between organized labor, which was conservative in the main, and the radical element, both in and out of the organization.  He played a double game, and his work was always the same, to fan the discontent latently smoldering in every man’s soul into a flame.  And to do this he had not Doyle’s fanaticism.  Personally, Louis Akers found the world a pretty good place.  He hated the rich because they had more than he had, but he scorned the poor because they had less.  And he liked the feeling of power he had when, on the platform, men swayed to his words like wheat to a wind.

Personal ambition was his fetish, as power was Anthony Cardew’s.  Sometimes he walked past the exclusive city clubs, and he dreamed of a time when he, too, would have the entree to them.  But time was passing.  He was thirty-three years old when Jim Doyle crossed his path, and the clubs were as far away as ever.  It was Doyle who found the weak place in his armor, and who taught him that when one could not rise it was possible to pull others down.

But it was Woslosky, the Americanized Pole; who had put the thing in a more appealing form.

“Our friend Doyle to the contrary,” he said cynically, “we cannot hope to contend against the inevitable.  The few will always govern the many, in the end.  It will be the old cycle, autocracy, anarchy, and then democracy; but out of this last comes always the one man who crowns himself or is crowned.  One of the people.  You, or myself, it may be.”

The Pole had smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

Akers did not go to work immediately.  He sat for some time, a cigarette in his hand, his eyes slightly narrowed.  He believed that he could marry Lily Cardew.  It would take time and all his skill, but he believed he could do it.  His mind wandered to Lily herself, her youth and charm, her soft red mouth, the feel of her warm young body in his arms.  He brought himself up sharply.  Where would such a marriage take him?

He pondered the question pro and con.  On the one hand the Cardews, on the other, Doyle and a revolutionary movement.  A revolution would be interesting and exciting, and there was strong in him the desire to pull down.  But revolution was troublesome.  It was violent and bloody.  Even if it succeeded it would be years before the country would be stabilized.  This other, now—­

He sat low in his chair, his long legs stretched out in his favorite position, and dreamed.  He would not play the fool like Doyle.  He would conciliate the family.  In the end he would be put up at the clubs; he might even play polo.  His thoughts wandered to Pink Denslow at the polo grounds, and he grinned.